“And he’s mythically graceful, too,” Peck muttered as he passed by, a battered coffee pot in hand.
Dizzy and breathless, Niel crouched and pushed his fingertips hard against his temples—and noticed his bracelet again. Why had it not helped him as it had on Jorgan’s ship or at Hallen’s stable?
Arwin came to his side. “Niel? You all right?”
For an instant, Niel considered telling the truth.
“Just tired,” he said, standing slowly.
Arwin took his arm. “Tired? Or was that something else?”
Niel brushed the hand away. “I said I’m fine.”
Arwin tilted his head, clearly unconvinced. “Well, you look like hell. Make sure you have something to eat. And some coffee.” He gave the back of Niel’s shoulder a quick slap then returned to stacking sticks for a cooking fire.
It occurred to Niel that he not only had spent the better part of the night partaking of his steed’s emotions, but of its stamina as well. It also quickly became evident that absent that stamina, something far more significant was now amiss, namely with the incantation he had memorized.
Rather than resting comfortably in his mind, the spell began writhing. His head buzzed and tingled, as a leg does after having fallen asleep.
A retained spell whose elements have gone afoul manifests itself in myriad ways, which is why College freshmen learned how to dispose of spoiled incantations before learning how to properly memorize one. While elder Members could rid themselves of a spell gone bad as easily as willing away an unpleasant thought, the less-experienced had to deliberately purge their psyches of the offending magic before it festered and became uncontrollable, like a sneeze that simply cannot be held back.
Unfortunately, Niel only knew of the process in theory, and the tension in his mind built rapidly. Putting some quick distance between himself and the others seemed the only thing to do.
He turned to head back up the trail, but another wave of dizziness apprehended him. He collapsed, unsettling the horses not only with his fall, but also with the loud, discordant belch of syllables that rushed from his mouth.
The next instant brought an astounding relief from the spell’s absence, as well as a groan, a rustling thud from somewhere behind him, and his companions racing over to tend to him.
Niel glanced up at his friends, who stared down in mingled shades of concern and annoyance. Once more, Arwin helped him to his feet.
“For someone who’s just tired,” he said, “you seem to be having a rough time of it.”
A sudden realization made Niel look from side to side. “Where’s Jharal?”
Cally thumbed over her shoulder. “He went—”
Niel pushed past before she could finish. The others followed.
Behind the row of trees, embedded in the ankle-deep snow, lay Jharal—face up, trousers bunched at his ankles, naked from the waist down and sleeping soundly with a pleasant smile on his face. Two large, grey squirrels slept draped across his stomach.
The four of them stood in silence until Jharal gave a loud snore, making one of the squirrels twitch its tail.
Cally jabbed Arwin’s arm with a disgusted sigh. “Help me get him up before he actually does freeze his ass off.”
Arwin looked at Niel, opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again. He shook his head and walked over to where Cally wrestled to get Jharal’s slumbering frame upright.
Niel felt a hand on his shoulder.
“Survive this one,” Peck said with a cheerful grin, “and you really will become a legend.”
***
Contrasted with the complex elegance of Chael, Glernny seemed a model of quaint simplicity. Smooth, rounded stones paved the curved main street that bisected town. Lean, sensible plaster buildings barren of frivolous adornments lined both sides of the avenue. The buildings and houses pressed together in a manner reminiscent of an old-fashioned style of tapestry-making Niel had once seen, where the proportions always looked wrong—people with giant heads and torsos poking out from the tops of tiny castle towers, pointing with melodramatic dread across a finger-wide sea at invading armies of top-heavy knights on the backs of strangely angular warhorses.
A handful of neatly-dressed men and women, out despite the early hour, stopped to watch the group pass. Arwin politely asked directions to Professor Potchkin’s residence from a thin, pinched-faced gentleman whose spectacles rested too far down on his nose to have possibly benefited his eyesight. The gentleman responded by pointing toward the far end of town, then continued to stand that way until he disappeared behind them as they rounded a bend in the road. Niel wondered if the man eventually went about his business, or if he’d still be there when they left.
“They must not get many Apostates down here,” Peck said.
Jharal guffawed. Arwin and Niel exchanged looks.
The big, dark man had been remarkably amiable all morning.
“No offense, Jhar,” Arwin said, raising his voice so all could hear, “but your little nap seems to have done you a world of good.” He glanced over at Niel with a smirk, who forced himself to do nothing more than roll his eyes.
All had agreed that in regard to the sleep spell gone awry, what Jharal didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him—or more to the point, wouldn’t hurt Niel. No need to up-end the manure cart when the crop was doing fine. Clearly, though, Arwin couldn’t resist tipping said cart a little further than Niel thought necessary.
“Well,” Jharal replied, “I gotta say, I don’t remember dozing off back there but I sure am glad I did. You should try it next time.”
“I think that’s excellent advice,” Peck chirped. “We should all squirrel away some time for a snooze whenever possible. What say you, Lord Elder?”
Arwin and Cally chuckled, as did an oblivious Jharal.
Niel kept his eyes forward and gritted his teeth.
The professor’s home stood at the end of the road. The dwelling looked oblong, like a watermelon, with planks nailed every which way. To Niel the house looked a few boards shy of having no shape at all. In contrast, small courtyards in front and to the side were tidy and well maintained in spite of the snow.
The group dismounted. Peck and Cally gathered the horses and stayed behind to watch the street. Arwin, Niel, and Jharal made their way to the unusually wide, rounded front door. The three of them halted in their tracks as the door creaked inward of its own accord.
“We’re expected, it would seem,” Arwin said.
“This professor supposed to be a magician?” Jharal growled, his disposition clearly plummeting back to normal.
Niel shrugged. “Lleryth didn’t say any—”
“Come in! Come in!” came a sing-song greeting so boisterous that Arwin’s hand dropped to his sword and Jharal hefted his axe in front of his chest.
From the dimness of the house’s interior burst the jolly, rotund shape of a person Niel knew must be Professor Ignalius Potchkins.
And the professor was a tahlerig.
Of the numerous races native to the mysterious and generally ill-regarded Outer Kingdoms, the tahlerig were among the more familiar, particularly within the academic community. To Niel’s eye, tahlerig resembled giant slugs, only without all the goo. Their skin was similar to that of a walrus, creased and blubbery, ranging in hue from dark green to brilliant purple, while their bellies and chests remained a uniform buttery color. Although standing a half-head taller than Jharal, from the waist up Professor Potchkins appeared little different than a human. His two chubby arms ended in hands having four fingers instead of five, and his torso was topped by a pleasant, cherubic face above a many-chinned neck.
Impeccable dressers, a tahlerig’s garb of choice normally fell along the lines of a waistcoat with hat and cane. However, the professor wore a rough-woven tunic belted with rope over a cotton shirt. A worker’s cap drooped to one side of his head. From beneath it poked a few sprigs of coarse gray hair. Like the gentleman they had seen earlier, he wore a small set of roun
d-rimmed spectacles at the end of his stubby, pinkish nose.
“Well, don’t just stand there with your mouths open,” the professor scolded, though his warm smile robbed the words of any sting. He waved to everyone in the group. “We’re running late as it is. Come in! Come in all of you! And bring your things!”
Arwin glanced at Niel, then turned and beckoned Cally and Peck into the house. The professor withdrew from the entryway to allow them room. The door remained open until Peck crossed the threshold, then closed behind him of its own accord.
Potchkins made a quick assessment of their concerned looks.
“No, no,” he assured. “Not magic. Never touch the stuff. Just something I threw together to keep me from having to fiddle with the latch when I get back from market with armfuls of gods-know-what.”
Being in such close quarters, Niel readily sensed his companions bristling with wariness. But just as Lleryth had, the tahlerig exuded nothing other than genuine goodwill, and the amusing flamboyance with which he ushered them through the foyer and into the main room quickly helped put everyone at ease.
The interior of the professor’s home reflected the town of Glernny itself—simple and for all intents undecorated, with far more importance placed on function than form. The walls looked to be little more than thick, opaque paper, smoothed into rectangular sections between narrow studs of dark wood. Across the ceiling ran strange systems of ropes, gears and pulleys. The presence of a pair of comfortable-looking chairs surprised Niel at first, until he realized they weren’t for the professor, but for visitors. Waist-high work benches lined the walls, crowded with scientific gadgets and spilling over with papers of all sizes and shapes.
“If I might ask, sir,” Niel said as he considered the room, “what exactly are you a professor of?”
With a plant of his tail and a push, the tahlerig pivoted on his ample tummy and drew up close to face him. “So you’re the one, are you?” he asked, his voice gentle.
Embarrassed, hoping the question had been rhetorical, Niel folded his hands in front of him.
“I hold several degrees, actually,” the professor continued, turning back to what he’d been doing. “History, Languages—but as you can see from the clutter, I put most of the emphasis on my doctorate from Fraal’s School of Theoretical Mechanics.”
Niel frowned. “Theoretical Mechanics?”
“Never heard of it, eh?” Potchkins replied over his shoulder. He chuckled as he moved several stacks of boxes and other equipment to reveal more chairs.
Niel shook his head. “I’m sorry, but no.”
“Little surprise, seeing as how those damnable magicians— no offense, mind you—did away with it about a hundred years ago.”
“How do you mean, ‘did away with it,’ Professor?” Arwin asked.
“Oh,” the tahlerig groaned as he bustled and tidied, “some of those College Holinesses in their ivory tower got their underbritches in a twist when they found out several of us at the School, including yours truly, had published a paper on a theory that basically stated magicians were a vestigial appendage to the collective body of our society.”
“And they were offended by that?” Peck asked.
Potchkins gave another chuckle as he rested his arms on the back of one of the chairs. “One best mind his tail when at someone else’s picnic, hmm? Yes, I suppose that’s true. But we weren’t attacking the College directly. Our theory claimed the presence of magic and the prominent role it plays in the Lands has served to hinder the development of other means of problem solving.”
Potchkins held up his hands, suddenly beside himself. “Where are my manners! Here I am rambling on about me and myself and we haven’t been properly introduced!”
He moved from behind the chair, then offered a sincerely formal bow. “My friends, I am Professor Ignalius Potchkins. I welcome you to my home, and would be honored if while you are here you please consider it nothing less than your home as well.”
Arwin introduced himself with like formality. “May I present Caleen,” he continued, gesturing to each as he spoke their name, “Jharal, Peck, and of course Niel, of whom you already seem to know.”
“Only through hearsay,” Potchkins replied, “but it will do for now. I imagine you are all quite tired from your trip. I’ve prepared a small room in which you might rest, as well as some modest refreshment. The accommodations aren’t luxurious by any stretch, but they should prove comfortable.”
Arwin bowed again in appreciation. “You have our thanks, Professor. With your permission, though, I believe my friend Peck would like to have a further look around before getting settled.”
“Actually,” Peck said, holding up a palm, “I think I’ll do as the good professor suggests and rest a bit before we head out again.”
Niel felt the statement catch Arwin off guard, but the swordsman hesitated so briefly Niel doubted anyone else noticed.
“Well, then there you have it,” Arwin said. “Thank you again, Professor.”
“Not at all,” Potchkins replied. “Believe me when I say it’s my pleasure. The plan is to get underway after dark.”
“And how will we be doing that, sir?” Cally asked.
The professor gave a wide, good-natured grin. “That, I hope, will be a terrific surprise.”
31
The wind came at Ennalen, razor-cold and in shrieks. Below her stretched the wastes of the Black Plains like a vast, stagnant ocean whose surface offered only the dullest shimmer whenever the pale afternoon penetrated the pervasive grey.
The torrential gusts impressed her with their bombast and foreboding, but they bothered her not in the least. During the course of her journey, her control had improved dramatically over the random, vicious bouts of empathy in whose throes she had first been caught. Now Ennalen far more easily chose what she wished to experience and what she preferred to ignore, and all without the protection of her gloves. She gripped the ledge at her waist with her bare hands to steady herself against another assault from the wind and wondered with hollow curiosity whether the swollen, chapped flesh around her knuckles would split open from the strain.
Her cloak whipped and snapped behind her as, from high atop the Wall, she watched the horse that had carried her stagger toward the hazy horizon. With every shaky step, the animal became increasingly difficult to discern against the uniform ebony of the Plains.
She purchased the beast in the noisy markets that lined the walls outside Fraal University; given her initial over-sensitivity, she specifically chose a docile and disinterested gelding over a younger, more spirited mare that shared the same corral. As it turned out, his corral-mate had been well in season, and despite being gelded he had found the company of the fertile mare thoroughly enticing—a feeling he unconsciously but no less enthusiastically shared with Ennalen from the first moment she settled herself into the saddle.
Before the cantle, the strict discipline with which Ennalen governed her passions included an even sterner suppression of physical arousal, rare as such situations were. She readily appreciated the aesthetics of eroticism, but had always relegated her response to academic stolidity. Because of that detachment, Ennalen had been dismayed by the strength of the animal’s instinctive desires, and at how long the mare’s effect on the gelding had lingered.
Reaching the outskirts of Lyrria necessitated relying on the rougher, more forsaken roads and paths that threaded throughout the countryside. Her gelding found those comparatively difficult passes much more interesting than the well-maintained Old Highway, and his distracted contentment made for a welcome relief from his previous, prurient state.
The Black Plains, though, proved another experience entirely.
The dark, scabrous earth once known as Talmoor bore no vegetation and held no water. The moment they entered the barren territory, her horse descended into a trepidation that Ennalen first found irksome, then infuriating. She entertained the idea of not feeding the animal, thinking hunger might keep its emotions in check, bu
t decided against it lest the horse collapse and strand her without sufficient provisions to reach the Wall on foot.
Having no other choice, she tolerated the horse’s stupidity—distracting, maddening, and as she came to discover, invaluable.
The animal’s apprehension provided a formidable emotional constant which Ennalen first resisted and then ignored, which slowly thickened her proverbial skin. Thus when the ever-distant narrow band on the horizon broadened against the faint purple of the Peridehn Mountains, and she realized she finally had reached the Black Wall, she felt no joy, no gratitude. Instead, a mollifying emptiness resonated inside her like the echo a room gains when one piece of furniture too many is removed. Throughout her being came a quietness, unqualified by bliss or serenity, that mirrored the surrounding desolation.
Atop the Wall, Ennalen squinted into the gale and saw that the horse had disappeared from sight. She could not remember when last she had slept—when last she had felt the need to sleep—and her impatience had pushed the horse to its limits. Being so many days inside the Black Plains, starvation and thirst would soon take their final toll on the animal.
She’d briefly considered putting the animal out of its misery rather than releasing it to wander and die, but decided this way would be much more informative. To that end she reached out one last time with her senses and, even from that far away, felt the despair that filled the horse’s simple mind.
Then, as one might toss away a scrap of bone after a meal, she let the beast go.
Ennalen gathered her cloak away from her feet and stepped carefully from her perch at the top of the steep, stone-block stairs that had allowed her access to the ledge. Below gaped a collapsed section of the Wall, the same through which she first climbed and discovered the surprising truth of the massive structure’s architecture. Unlike the bare, flat surface the view from the ground suggested, the upper portion of the Wall actually hid a recessed walkway. The corridor was narrow given its length—only a few shoulderwidths across—but from where she stood at its bottom, the top looked easily thrice her own height.
A Mage Of None Magic (Book 1) Page 24
